by Tony Riches
‘I had to go after the men who murdered William. At the time, I didn’t know what I would do when I found them but Thomas Cromwell somehow found out and stopped me.’
‘Thomas Cromwell assaulted you?’
‘His men did. He threatened to charge me with affray and lock me up in the Tower.’ He stared into the grate of the empty fireplace as he remembered. ‘I suppose he was doing me a favour. I wouldn’t have stood a chance against so many – but I would have taken a few with me.’
He sounded defiant and she knew it was true. They’d insulted his honour. He’d said they might be done for now, so there was probably more he’d not told her. She could imagine even Thomas Cromwell had found it hard to stop him reaching Norfolk’s henchmen.
‘All this was because of me, because I spoke out against the Boleyns.’
‘The king is displeased with us, Mary, and there will be a price to pay. For the sake of our family I can never return to court.’
* * *
Brandon’s bitterness against Norfolk took a new turn when he heard William Pennington’s murderers were pardoned by the king. It was said they’d been fined a thousand pounds but he knew Henry well enough to be sure it would never be paid.
‘I can’t ignore this insult, Mary.’ He thumped his fist on the table, startling the serving girl who stood waiting behind him.
‘Please, Charles. Anything you do will only make matters worse.’ Mary was grateful he’d waited for the children to go out riding as his last outburst had worried them. The girls were old enough to appreciate her explanation but little Henry struggled to understand.
‘There are men in London I can call on to defend our honour, for a price.’
‘And if they are caught, Norfolk will have you charged with conspiring against the king.’
Brandon shook his head. ‘It pains me to know Norfolk thinks he’s beaten me.’ His eyes blazed with anger.
Mary placed her hand on his. ‘You mustn’t resort to Norfolk’s methods, Charles.’ She thought for a moment, aware her husband’s career and the future of their family could be at stake. ‘Thomas Cromwell was Wolsey’s man and seems to be taking his place at my brother’s side. He might be persuaded to help us—’
‘I think not.’ Brandon interrupted. ‘You must know I had sharp words for him when he stopped me in Westminster.’
‘He did you a great favour. You could be locked up in the Tower of London now, or worse, if Cromwell hadn’t intervened.’ She took his hand in hers. ‘You will write to Cromwell a letter of apology, seeking his support in returning you to the king’s favour.’
‘No!’ Brandon pulled his hand away, then calmed himself and studied her face, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘You are right. I have nothing to lose – and who better as an ally than Thomas Cromwell, who seems to have few enough friends yet is as close to the king as anyone.’
‘Except, perhaps, for Mistress Anne Boleyn?’
He gave her a wry smile. ‘I shall need your help with the wording. It is not going to be an easy letter for me to write.’
Cromwell’s reply, when it arrived a month later, astonished them both. Brandon broke the dark wax seal and read it through twice before handing it to Mary. ‘We have some work to do.’
Mary took the parchment and studied it. Written in a neat hand the letter was signed with a confident flourish. Thomas Cromwell had exceeded their expectations. He thanked Brandon for his understanding and said the king would visit them to hunt for stags, arriving in two weeks.
‘My brother is coming to Westhorpe!’ She felt a sudden panic at the thought. ‘Do you think he will bring Anne Boleyn? I’ve heard she always goes hunting with him.’
‘Let us hope Cromwell has advised him against it. The king’s visit can only mean we are forgiven.’ Brandon grinned. ‘You were right, Mary. It seems Henry has chosen a good man to replace the late cardinal.’
‘We only have two weeks to prepare.’ She called to Eleanor. ‘Tell your brother and sister to meet us in the hall – and assemble as many of the staff as can be spared. We have important news.’
The two weeks passed in a hectic flurry of preparation. Brandon’s rooms were repainted and a magnificent new bed purchased for the king. Mary sold some of her jewels to buy new Arras tapestries and their team of gardeners toiled to make her neglected grounds ready for the tented encampment that always followed the king on progress.
The children became increasingly excited as the time for the royal visit approached. The girls sewed new gowns and even little Henry helped. Nine years old, he shared his father’s love of horses and rode out with Brandon and the foresters to scout for stags.
At last the yeoman posted as lookout announced the royal party was approaching. Henry rode at the front with Thomas Cromwell, followed by his mounted royal guard and wagons carrying his luggage and servants. Mary thanked the Lord there was no sign of Lady Anne Boleyn.
The family stood in a row in the July sunshine to welcome the king. Mary thought he looked older as she watched him dismount. He’d put on weight and it was said he suffered with his teeth, as their father had.
Brandon removed his hat, stepped forward and bowed. ‘Welcome, Your Grace. It is a great honour you do us.’
Henry beamed and embraced him warmly. ‘It is good to see you again, Suffolk. We’ve missed you at court,’ he turned to Mary, ‘and you, dearest sister, we are sorry to hear you’ve been unwell.’
Mary smiled. ‘It warms my heart, Your Grace, that you travel to see our modest home. May I present our son, Henry Brandon, Earl of Lincoln?’
Little Henry stepped forward and bowed. ‘Your Grace.’
The king studied him for a moment. ‘You take after your father, Henry. Would you like to ride with us in the hunt?’
‘I would be honoured, Your Grace.’
Mary introduced her daughters who each stepped forward in turn and curtseyed to the king. They had decided Katherine Willoughby should remain out of sight, as her mother had also been vocal in her support for Queen Catherine, and punished by being banned from seeing her.
Henry and Brandon returned from a successful hunt with a handsome stag. Little Henry seemed in awe of the king and was rewarded for his help with a gold coin, an angel, decorated with the figure of St George slaying a fearsome dragon.
The one moment of tension during the king’s short visit was when he cursed the lack of progress in persuading the pope to grant a divorce from Catherine. He told them he planned a visit to France to secure the support of King Francis.
Mary saw Brandon’s warning glance and remained silent but Henry said she would be required to attend. She caught her breath. She would be second in importance to Anne Boleyn. It would be humiliating to attend her former lady-in-waiting but Henry intended to use her to send a signal to King Francis, the courts of England and France and, most importantly, poor Catherine.
‘My physicians advise me against travel, dear brother, although I would ask you to convey my regards to King Francis.’
Henry stared at her for a moment, his eyes as sharp as a hawk, while he decided whether she was testing him. ‘That is a great shame, sister. We sail in October, so you will reconsider, if your health improves. In the meantime, you will kindly lend Lady Anne your French jewels.’ It was more a command than a request.
Mary recalled that moment, long after her brother’s departure. She would have risked her health for another visit to her beloved France, but not with Anne Boleyn. Brandon accepted Henry’s invitation, out of gratitude for his forgiveness, although he’d done nothing wrong.
On her knees in her private chapel she prayed for the safety of Catherine’s loyal chaplain, who published his views in her support and now languished in the Tower of London. Henry ordered Thomas Cromwell not to rest until every copy was tracked down and burned.
Mary tried to pray for the soul of William Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, who’d died the previous month. Instead, she found her anger flaring at the thought of Anne Bol
eyn taking her place at Henry’s side in France. She’d had no choice. Her precious French jewels, given to her by King Louis, were loaned and would never be seen again.
25
May 1533
Mary gripped the arm of her chair as she fought another wave of pain, her nails biting into the gilded wood. She’d insisted on attending the wedding of her eldest daughter, against the advice of her physicians. Little else would have persuaded Mary to return to Suffolk Place, as she was too weakened by her illness for the journey.
Maria de Salinas, Baroness Willoughby, invited to represent Queen Catherine, seemed to sense something wrong. ‘Are you unwell, Your Grace?’
‘No,’ Mary forced a smile, ‘I will be fine.’
She prayed it was true. Her husband spared no expense for their daughter’s wedding. More lavish than either of her stepdaughter’s weddings, the event provided a much-needed opportunity to remind the nobility of England of their wealth and influence. It also allowed Mary to prove the rumours wrong. She was very much alive and well.
In truth, the numbing ache in her side was worse than ever and had moved to her chest. Mary often found herself short of breath and Brandon worried about the toll it took on her. Increasingly, she would spend all day in her bed, so it took a great effort to make the long journey in her carriage to London.
She’d been too unwell to attend the May Fair in Bury St Edmunds, the first time she’d missed it since arriving at Westhorpe sixteen years ago. Her daughters, escorted by Brandon and Henry, represented the family. Mary’s absence would have brought her illness to public attention but for far greater news in London.
In April, a joyous Henry summoned his council to announce he had privately married Anne Boleyn and she carried the heir to England in her belly. Mary cried for Catherine when she heard. As Thomas Abel had feared, it was now too late. The Boleyns and Norfolk had won.
Brandon was tasked with Norfolk to inform Catherine and tell her she could no longer call herself Queen of England. He told Mary she took the news badly and it grieved him to be chosen as the bearer of it. She locked herself in her chamber and nothing he said would persuade her to come out.
His only consolation was that he’d delivered the news with more sensitivity to her feelings than Norfolk would have done. Norfolk bragged about how he’d sent his men to retrieve Catherine’s jewels for the king, by force if necessary. It seems she was most distressed that her former lady-in-waiting was to have them. Norfolk’s men took everything except for the modest gold crucifix she wore on a chain around her neck.
Mary tried to take her mind off the nagging pain by looking around at the waiting guests. Her stepdaughters, Anne and Mary, both baronesses glittering with jewels, were there with their handsome husbands. After eight years of marriage Anne remained childless and her husband, Baron Grey, had taken a mistress, which would explain Anne’s coolness towards him.
Her stepdaughter Mary’s husband, Baron Monteagle, had become a favourite of the king and was to be made a Knight of the Bath as reward for carrying the king’s sword at Anne Boleyn’s coronation. Mary had two children, a boy named William after his father and a daughter they’d named after Frances.
Outwardly they seemed a perfect family but Thomas Stanley’s weakness for gambling and ill-advised investments had put their growing family deep into debt. Brandon did his best to help his daughter with loans he could barely afford. Nothing had yet been repaid and Mary doubted it ever would.
Handsome young Henry Grey, known to everyone as Harry, stood waiting near the altar, a shaft of June sunlight through the window glinting on his ceremonial sword. Brandon had kept his promise to not marry her daughters to old men. At sixteen, Henry Grey was only six months older than Frances, with a promising future.
A great-grandson of Elizabeth Woodville, by her first marriage to Sir John Grey, he’d inherited his late father’s title as Marquess of Dorset three years before. Despite his youth, he’d shown the courage to risk speaking out in support of Queen Catherine. Henry banished him from court for several months but Mary saw it as proof they’d made the right choice for her eldest daughter.
She was surprised to see Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, sitting grim-faced at the back. Brandon had refused to invite him but it seemed he’d taken her advice to put the past behind them, for the sake of the children. Mary found it easy to believe rumours about how Norfolk mistreated his wife, Lady Elizabeth, who was unsurprisingly absent.
Mary was also pleased to see that Thomas Cromwell, who’d saved her husband’s career, had accepted their invitation. Henry had shown good judgement in appointing Wolsey’s man. Although Brandon was reluctant to trust him, Cromwell agreed to Mary’s request to release Queen Catherine’s chaplain, Thomas Abel, from the Tower.
A commotion near the entrance caught Mary’s attention and everyone began to stand. Her brother had decided to attend after all. She held her breath as she waited to see if he’d brought his newly pregnant wife. Brandon had doubted it, as Anne Boleyn knew she would be unwelcome.
Henry entered alone and in good spirits, accepting congratulations as he passed through the guests to the seat reserved for him in pride of place. Mary noticed he wore her priceless pearl pendant, the Mirror of Naples, in his hat. Sending the jewel to him as a gift almost led to her downfall, all those years ago in France, but now she was glad she’d done it.
The choir began singing as Henry took his seat, the cue for Brandon and their daughter to make their entrance. Frances looked beautiful in her elegant new gown, with Eleanor and young Henry proudly following behind. For once, Mary had to be sparing with the loan of her jewels, as her brother was not beyond demanding she hand over to him the few she had left.
She felt the years passing too soon as she watched her daughter saying her vows. She recalled the day of Frances’ birth, when she’d sought refuge at the manor house of her old friend Nicholas West. She’d been saddened to hear of his death the previous month. Mary had felt too ill to attend his funeral but Brandon paid his respects to the man who had helped them in France.
Mary sighed with relief when at last the wedding ceremony was over. Maria de Salinas supported her arm as they made their way to the wedding banquet. Although Mary wished to conceal her illness, she felt too weakened by the journey to London to walk even such a short distance unaided.
She thanked Lady Maria as she helped her to her place. ‘I am grateful for your daughter’s company, Maria, she is a great help to me, particularly now Frances will be leaving for her new life.’
Maria smiled. ‘Catherine tells me in her letters you have shown her great kindness, Your Grace.’
‘You must be proud of your daughter, she is a credit to you.’ Mary glanced at the empty chairs to her left. ‘It seems the king decided not to stay.’
‘He is never one to miss a banquet.’ Maria sounded scornful. ‘Perhaps he has more urgent matters to attend to, Your Grace.’
Mary turned to her. ‘Are you still forbidden to visit Queen Catherine?’
Maria lowered her voice. ‘I should have been more discreet – he has spies and informers everywhere.’
‘The king?’
‘Thomas Cromwell.’
* * *
Mary opened her eyes as Eleanor appeared in the doorway. Her daughter was growing up fast now her elder sister had left home, and looked older than her fourteen years. A marriage contract had been agreed for her marriage to Henry Clifford, the sixteen-year-old heir to the Earldom of Cumberland. Eleanor would become a countess but Mary felt a stab of regret as she knew the last of her daughters would be leaving home.
‘Good morning, Mother.’ Eleanor smiled but her eyes remained serious. ‘How are you today?’
‘Well enough, Eleanor. I’m feeling a little better.’ Mary lied to her daughter, a small enough sin to keep her happy.
‘Would you like me to have a bowl of soup sent up from the kitchens?’
‘Just a cup of spiced wine, if you will. I find it helps to ease this ach
e.’ She held her hand to her chest.
Eleanor sat in the chair at Mary’s bedside and took her left hand, showing her how loose her once tight gold rings had become. ‘You must eat, Mother, and take exercise, or you will waste away.’
Mary studied her daughter’s stern face. Somehow her illness had reversed their roles. ‘Some soup, if you insist,’ she didn’t feel hungry but knew Eleanor needed an answer, ‘and a little bread.’
Mary sat up in bed, resting on her soft velvet cushions while she dipped the bread in the warm bowl of soup. It tasted good and she realised her daughter was right. She needed to build up her strength before Brandon returned from London. It had been several days since she’d last ventured down the twisting wooden staircase and she felt too weak to try.
Eleanor’s expression reminded her of the strict governess she’d once had in the nursery at Eltham Palace. Mary worried for her youngest daughter. Her outspoken criticism of King Henry would cause her trouble if she shared her views outside Westhorpe.
‘I want to explain the actions of the king, to help you understand...’
‘I’m not the innocent child you think, Mother. I understand how the king is bewitched by a younger woman.’
Mary smiled at her daughter’s forthright views. She had Tudor blood flowing in her veins. ‘Your grandfather always told Henry he must have a son to inherit his throne.’ She caught her breath as another wave of pain passed through her chest. ‘It was not God’s will for Queen Catherine to provide him with one. If not Anne Boleyn, another would have come along soon enough.’
‘I can never accept Anne Boleyn as our queen.’ Eleanor sounded determined.
‘Your father had to, Eleanor, and you must do the same if you ever hope to become her lady-in-waiting.’
