Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII

by Geraldine Evans

  It disconcerted him for a moment, she saw, for he quickly seized her hand and kissed it as fervently as she could wish, before he raised his lips from her hand to her mouth and kissed that more fervently still. Mary threw her arms round his neck and pressed her body down the length of him. If she couldn’t take away with her the memory she wanted, she could at least leave a lasting memory of her with him. She felt his body give a lusty response and began to caress him.

  But Charles tore himself away again. His breath ragged, his voice hollow, he said, ‘By the Mass, Mary, I pray you do not do this to me. The king, your brother, would cut me to collops if he caught us.’

  Mary gazed at him from eyes made languid by love. ‘We won’t let him catch us, then. I can get one of my maids to hire us a private room at an inn and we can—’

  Charles turned away from her and the temptation she offered. ‘I cannot,’ he told her. ‘I dare not. You know I dare not.’

  Anguished, she gazed at his broad back. ‘Some men dare much for love,’ she taunted. ‘Abelard loved Heloise so much, he—’

  He turned back to her then. ‘Aye, sweetheart. And look what happened to him. Would you have me gelded, as he was?’

  Haste had made Mary choose a poor example. His words served to sober her, too. ‘No, of course not. You are right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Let us part as friends, so we may come together as true man and maid.’

  ‘Maid no more if Louis does his duty.’

  ‘We must then pray that age has gelded him.’

  Mary, who had never realised how much pain could be brought on the wings of love, whose very heart ached for love of Charles and whose body rose up in revolt at the thought of Louis, said a heartfelt, ‘Amen to that.’

  Mary came back to the present and the choking dust of the road. She mustn’t think of it; each time she did, her stomach heaved. There would be no more stolen kisses. She was on her way to her ancient husband and she must try to resign herself to it. Resign herself too, to the fact that her love would be taken as of right, rather than given freely as she had wished.

  A shout went up and broke the chain of her thoughts. And as she looked up she could see the mighty stone walls of Dover Castle in the distance. One of the largest castles in England, built high on the cliffs, it dominated the town and had served England well through many episodes of invasion. Mary was struck by the irony that the latest role of the castle would be to hold her fast in its keeping till she sailed for France on the morrow.

  The last of several long days that had begun at dawn, was winding down to its nadir as the royal party clattered through the castle’s magnificent gateway. Mary's head now beat in tune with her heart and as soon as she had climbed wearily from her horse, she begged leave of Henry to retire. Thankfully, he was more than willing to bid her wan face adieu and she was able to escape to the chamber allotted to her.

  The bedding, under the circumstances of her imminent departure, was rather makeshift, but somebody had at least put a pallet bed in the room and, after being relieved of her head-dress and gown by one of her attendants, Mary sank on to it and settled back on the cool pillows. She didn’t expect to sleep as her mind was too troubled. Besides, her Maids of Honour entered the chamber then, chattering like so many argumentative magpies, excited by the prospect of travelling to France. Mary couldn’t bear their excitement and turned her head away. Along the corridor, she could hear Lady Guildford sternly rebuke another of her ladies before she bustled in and banished the rest from the chamber so Mary could sleep in peace.

  Her thoughts drifted and she fell into a light doze, her dreams filled with pictures of an ardent Louis, all scrawny limbs and drooling, toothless red mouth, pursuing her around their bedchamber. She wasn’t sorry to be wakened from such a dream by the crack of thunder overhead. Immediately, lightning raced across the sky, lighting up the room.

  The warmth had vanished from the day. A chill struck her as she climbed from the pallet and she shivered. Lady Anne Grey, daughter to her cousin, the Marquis of Dorset and one of the ladies who were to accompany her to France, was sitting by the window, quietly reading by the light of a candle and Mary asked her, ‘What hour is it?’

  ‘Tis after five of the clock, Your Grace.’

  Mary had lain for an hour, but didn’t feel rested; no doubt worn out by the necessity of making sure that, in her troubled dreams, Louis didn't catch her. But at least her headache had subsided to a dull throb.

  Anne closed her book, summoned the other ladies. Mary submitted to their ministrations as they prepared her for supper. All her gowns were packed, so she must climb back into the one she had worn on the road. But while she had slept, her ladies had seen to it that the dust had been brushed from her gown and head-dress, her jewels burnished till they shone once more. Now, with her hair brushed, her skin perfumed, and her head-dress fixed on her head to shut in her dreams, Mary took a last, lingering look at her reflection in the hastily set-up glass. She hoped her brother wasn’t feeling too hearty, as this evening, she felt as hard put as the ever-pregnant Catherine to match his energy. Mary turned away from the glass and with a resolution that was new to her, she walked to the door and descended for supper.

  The day had turned sultry and the hall was suffocating, a heat made worse by all the hot, sweaty bodies of the courtiers. Mary spotted Henry, his auburn head easily visible above those of the admirers that always surrounded him and she made her way across to him.

  He saw her and made space for her beside him. ‘Well sister,’ he remarked, ‘you are in better looks than when we arrived. Have you rested?’

  Mary nodded. ‘Till the storm woke me. Think you it will delay my departure?’ Hope entered her voice at the prospect. Henry noticed, of course, and immediately crushed it.

  ‘Nay, sister, ‘tis only a squall. Tomorrow will dawn bright and clear, you’ll see. Your departure will not be delayed.’

  Swallowing her disappointment, Mary forced herself to murmur, ‘That’s good. I’m sure Your Grace has much urgent business awaiting you back in London. I’d not like to delay you.’

  Henry was not deceived. He chided, ‘Nay, sweetheart. Don’t sound so tragic. I’d not abandon you here in Dover to await clement weather.’

  Her brother’s voice was soft and he was at his most charming. He had always loved her well, Mary knew. A love she suspected had sprung from her patent adoration of him as a little girl when she had followed him around like a puppy. It was only her recent defiance that had caused a breach between them. Mary realised how much she would miss him. Perhaps he was thinking the same of her for Henry could be a sentimental man. She put her arm through his and drew him away from his boisterous courtiers to a relatively quiet corner of the hall. He didn’t resist.

  ‘Henry,’ she began.

  ‘Sweetheart?’ he prompted.

  ‘Henry.’ She stopped again.

  He tilted his handsome head on one side and looked enquiringly down at her. ‘Come, Mary, ‘tis not like you to act the coy maid. Ask what you will and if I can grant it I will. You know well I would be happy to please you. Apart, that is, from—’

  He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Mary knew what he meant — apart from the French marriage. She cleared her throat and tried again. Her words fell over one another in her nervous rush. ‘You won’t forget your promise, Henry, will you?’

  Henry raised an eyebrow and demanded loftily, ‘Think you I am in the habit of forgetting my promises? I am the king .You have my word. Did you doubt it?’

  Although Mary was quick to deny it, she had doubted. Much as she loved Harry the brother, Henry the king was a different matter. The needs of policy came before affection for his little sister. If she were left a widow in France, he wouldn’t hesitate, if policy demanded it, to push her into another loveless state marriage. Still, she reminded herself, she had extracted a repeat of the promise, and she must needs be content with that. Now she smiled up at Henry, again entwined her arm through his, and said, ‘Come, H
enry, let us into supper.’

  They walked through the body of the hall and up to the dais. Henry signaled to the minstrels to play and a sweet, haunting tune filled the hall, accompanied by words telling of the sorrows of lost love. Its poignancy was particularly apt and Mary’s eyes stung with tears. Henry must have noticed, for he immediately banged a huge fist on the table, making everyone jump. The musicians stopped with a discordant jangle.

  ‘Must we have that tormenting dirge?’ Henry demanded. ‘Play something merry, for the love of God. This is a happy occasion, not a time for tears and lamentations.’

  After a hasty conversation, a far more lively air sprang up. Satisfied, Henry settled back in his chair and reached for one of the many well-laden platters that formed the first course.

  The cooks had done well in the limited time, but then, with the nomadic nature of the court as it moved from palace to castle and back to palace again, they had plenty of practise. Henry, ever one to enjoy his food, began to fill his vast appetite with relish. But he still had time to notice that Catherine was toying with her food and he chided her. ‘Come, sweeting, you’re setting Mary a bad example. She’ll need all her strength for the journey tomorrow. Eat up, both of you, eat up.’

  Catherine did her best, though Mary knew her sister-in-law’s morning sickness made mealtimes a battle to be endured. Mary, too, began to eat, though her stomach, too, was in a state of rebellion.

  But Henry was pleased to see them eat. ‘That’s better. I like to see hearty appetites about me. Hearty appetites breed hearty sons, my dear.’ Henry glanced at Catherine who lowered her eyes at his reproach.

  At last the meal, with its endless courses, was over. And Catherine and Mary, having eaten sufficient to satisfy the king’s demands, received no further chastisements. The trestles were cleared for dancing. The sky had darkened considerably during the meal. The candles had all been lit. They guttered in the draught of the increasingly stormy evening, their flickering gave a now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t, quality to those congregated there, lighting up a face, then shadowing it as the candle flame favoured another. Mary closed her eyes in an attempt to capture the picture in her memory for the uncertain future that awaited her on the morrow.

  ‘Your Grace?’

  Mary’s eyes flew open and she found the Duc de Longueville kneeling at her side, still playing proxy husband. He bowed. ‘You look sad, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘New brides are often filled with uncertainties. ‘Tis unfortunate that Jane isn’t here to cheer you. She would tell you of the glorious future that is now yours and would soon have you smiling.’

  ‘Truly, I would be glad of such comfort,’ Mary admitted. ‘But King Louis — my husband,’ she forced the words past her lips, ‘as you know, forbade Jane to come.’ According to Lady Guildford, Louis reigned over a pious court. He wouldn’t relish the presence of the wanton Jane. Even so, Mary felt it was such a little thing to ask of her new husband. Especially as, if Louis were as unwell as had been reported, he would surely spend much time on his knees seeking absolution for looming eternity and would be poor company.

  The Duc de Longueville wasted no time in suggesting she speak for Jane at the first opportunity. ‘I miss her too,’ he said. ‘Perhaps, when we see him, we could both try to persuade King Louis to alter his mind. He has a kind heart and will want to please you.’ He smiled and changed the subject. ‘But His Grace, King Henry has demanded happy faces tonight. It seems a shame to waste such lovely music in melancholy thoughts. Will you honour me with a dance, Your Grace? Your last dance in England before you dance at the French court.’

  Mary, who usually loved to dance, wondered how much opportunity she would have for such pleasures with Louis ailing. And tonight, although she didn’t feel much like dancing, the music was infectious and she sensed Henry’s lowering frown, so she gave de Longueville her hand and they took the floor. She knew they made a handsome couple, herself so fair and the tall de Longueville so dark, as they made the graceful movements of the pavane.

  Mary, all her senses tonight especially acute, caught some of the whispers from her Maids of Honour as she and de Longueville danced past.

  ‘Tis a shame,’ one murmured. ‘To think she’s destined for a dried-up old man. What will gouty Louis do with so much beauty? She’ll likely kill him.’

  ‘But think what she’s gaining,’ murmured another. ‘Honours and riches seem a fair exchange for the fondling hands and limp manhood of the King of France.’

  Some of Mary’s younger Maids looked tired after the long hours on the road. They couldn’t retire till Mary did, but Mary, determined on making her last day in England endure as long as she could, danced on with a feverish gaiety, as if she never wanted the evening to end. But Henry was pleased with her at last. She caught his look of satisfaction as he took in her cheeks flushed with exertion and not a little wine.

  But there was to be an early start on the morrow to catch the tide. Henry would not allow sluggish bodies and even more sluggish heads to delay matters. Soon after, he called an end to the evening’s festivities. Reluctantly, Mary followed her ladies as they lighted her to her chamber. Tomorrow would come all too soon. The next time she opened her eyes it would be to see the dawn of the day that would bring an end to all familiar things.

  The storm still raged over the night sky as her ladies readied her for bed. It didn’t auger well for the voyage. In spite of Henry’s determination that tomorrow would be clear even her brother couldn’t command the weather. With this happy thought to comfort her, Mary finally slept.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mary woke to the sound of rain lashing the windows. It had finally come; the day she had dreaded. But she was given no time for morbid fancies, as her Mother Guildford bustled into the chamber. Mary had expected her to chivvy her from the bed, but after curtseying and bidding her good morning, Lady Guildford’s next words immediately cheered her.

  ‘Though, as you can no doubt hear, the weather is not so good. You might as well abide in bed awhile. You’ll not leave today. The king, after stomping about the castle calling on all the fates in his wrath, is up on the keep hoping to see a break in the sky.’

  Reprieved, Mary rejected Lady Guildford’s suggestion that she stay in bed for a while, and flung off the bedcovers. She wanted to enjoy all the hours of her unlooked-for bonus. Dressed, she hurried down to the hall to find out what was happening. The sight of her brother gave her answer. From his pursed lips and heavy pacing, the view from the keep had failed to please.

  ‘Cheer up, Henry,’ she called as she approached. ‘Are you not glad to keep me with you for one more day? Will you not miss your sister as much as your sister shall miss her big, handsome brother?’

  Henry turned at her words. ‘I might say the same at seeing you up so early. Are you so eager then to leave us all?’

  ‘You know the answer to that, Henry. I have no desire to sail to France. I would remain here, with you and Catherine.’

  ‘You know that is impossible, sweetheart. You must go to your husband. He is anxious there should be no delay. He feels he has been a widower too long, I think.’

  Mary could only wish Louis found more joy in his solitary state. As she was the one expected to fill the breach, she had no desire to fill him with memories of the pleasures to be found in the marriage bed. Her joy at the reprieve the weather had provided had gone and she crept away to find some of the solitude that Louis was so keen to spurn.

  The storm raged on, and Henry raged with it. It seemed the fates now wished to keep Mary in England, for the bad weather continued, day after day, making departure impossible, till, finally, Henry’s limited patience snapped. He set watchers to signal any lull in the storm so she could depart.

  Loud voices dragged Mary from sleep to a room still night-dark. After a moment spent wondering where she was and what was happening, she remembered. Immediately wide awake, heart thudding, she realised what all the noise portended.

  The door to her chamber was thrust
open and Lady Guildford hurried in, her hand cupped protectively round a wildly flickering candle-flame. She was followed by Mary’s Maids rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

  ‘Come, your Grace,’ said Lady Guildford. ‘The king has decreed the weather is favourable. He has ordered our immediate departure. You must get dressed at once.’

  Mary protested. ‘But it is the middle of the night.’

  ‘It’s nearly dawn,’ Lady Guildford corrected. ‘And your brother’s patience is at an end. We must go now. There’s been a lull in the storm and he says we must make haste and get away before it passes over.’

  Mary had not anticipated being harried from the country like an importunate guest who had tarried too long. And what if the lull was a brief one only? She could drown, her ladies and Mother Guildford with her. An imp of humour told her that at least the embrace of Neptune, the Roman god of the sea, would save her from that of Louis. But that would mean she would never enjoy those of her love. And if she had little else to look forward to, she still had hope that sometime, somehow, she and Charles would be together.

  But there was no time for brooding. No time even for a long round of goodbyes. Mary scarce had time to dress before she was bundled down to the ships like a fugitive from justice, hair half-brushed, head-dress awry, the shock all the greater because with the delay she had half managed to convince herself that the day of departure would be continually put off until Henry relented or Louis, the husband everyone told her was so sickly, died.

  The wind still howled, despite the lull that Henry’s determined optimism had claimed. The rain poured down in torrents. The dirty sea looked as if it had a grudge against her; its huge waves rocked the fourteen anchored ships of the flotilla that would take her and her attendants to France.